A little orange cat paw slaps the keyboard, demanding that I pause in my writing to scratch a certain set of pointed tabby cat eats. Leo, A’s little sister’s orange tabby, is stretched out on my lap, watching my fingers on the keyboard and following the pointer on the screen anytime I move the mouse. Periodically, his eyes close and when I pause to pet him, he rolls on his back and grabs my hand and arm with his paws, purring and licking my fingers with his course tongue.
Normally, I am not a cat person, but I really like Leo. I like the way his fur has that just-rolled-out-of-bed look and the little tufts that poke out from his ears. I like the way he purs and plays with my fingers. I like the way he attacks the dogs’ tails and the way they ignore him, despite his best attempts at viciousness. But, most of all, I like his quirkiness. Leo seems to have a permanent head cold, which leads to sneezing, snot bubbles and general snortiness. Never before have I had to wipe an animal’s nose, particularly not a cat’s, but sometimes, Leo just needs a tissue. Never before have I met an animal so curious about all thing water in the bathroom. And, never have I had a cat cling so desperately onto my arm in an attempt to lick every last bit of lotion and smell off my hands.
In short, never have I met a cat like Leo. I’ve known him less than twenty-four hours and already he has found a place in my heart.